


when we have made up many thousands

by chess_ka



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012), The Incredible Hulk (2008)
Genre: F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-24
Updated: 2013-06-17
Packaged: 2017-12-12 21:22:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 6,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/816196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chess_ka/pseuds/chess_ka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It isn't always easy to love Bruce Banner - there is no manual, no map, no instructions. But Betty loves him anyway.</p><p>A series of short stories featuring Bruce Banner and Betty Ross.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Intense

**Author's Note:**

> "Give me a thousand kisses, then a hundred,  
> Then another thousand, then a second hundred,  
> then yet a thousand, then a hundred.  
> Then, when we have made up many thousands,  
> we will confuse our counting,  
> that we may not know the reckoning,  
> nor any malicious person blight them with evil eye,  
> when he knows that our kisses are so many."
> 
> \- Catullus 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Betty can usually keep her feelings in check. Sometimes, though, they're just too much.

_Betty Ross was fifteen years old when she was betrayed._

For a long time the most intense, overwhelming emotion Betty had experienced was the _angergriefpain_ of being sent away to boarding school. The pain of her mother’s death had been too much to even feel, and she remembered the days, the weeks after losing her as though through a fog, a cloud of numbness shrouding her, shielding her from the agonising reality ( _gonegonegonesheisgone_ ). To be sent away by her father, to be discarded in a world of strangers and left to fend for herself, was a betrayal that burnt through that fog like a flame through gauze.

_Betty Ross was twenty years old when she fell in love._

Betty learnt to control her emotions. She became known for her composure, for being level-headed, for being _rational_. It made her a good scientist, it meant that she was the person her friends sought out for advice. 

The next time she experienced that intensity of emotion -the sort that caught in her throat, that swelled behind her ribs, that bubbled beneath her skin - she was sitting across the table from Bruce in a cheap diner. It was past three a.m. and exhaustion prickled at her eyes and weighed down her limbs. They had been caught up in their work, barely noticing the hours go past until Bruce’s stomach had rumbled in protest.

They sat in companionable quiet, sipping terrible coffee. Betty was wearing Bruce’s sweater to ward off the early morning chill, and his hair was sticking up at odd angles where he had run his hands through it. Their empty plates bore remnants of bacon and egg. Underneath the table, Bruce rested his foot against hers and he smiled at her, tired and genuine. The affection that blazed through Betty’s body was almost painful. 

_Betty Ross was thirty-six years old when she grieved again._

Everywhere was white. Faint noises buzzed and beeped nearby. There was pain, pain _everywhere_ , but muted, distant. 

“Sweetheart?” Her father’s voice was hoarse.

“Dad?” It was barely a whisper. Her throat ached, her tongue felt heavy and swollen in her mouth. 

“Oh, thank God, thank God- easy there, sweetheart, stay nice and still ‘til the doc’s looked you over.” His big, warm hand was on hers, and she gripped his fingers tight. 

“What’s – am I in hospital?” The memories were confusing. The noise of smashing and… and roaring? There had been a creature, a huge creature – so much smoke – the machines going crazy – glass shattering – pain pain pain – _Bruce_ \- “Where’s Bruce?”

“Betty, ssh. It’s okay now.” He stroked her hair back and she jerked away, staring at him. He wouldn’t meet her eyes.

“Where’s Bruce?” she tried to demand, her voice a pitiful croak. “Is he alright? Why isn’t he here? Is he hurt?”

Bruce would be here if he was okay. He would stay by her every minute. She _knew_ he would.

She watched her dad’s face, watched his jaw clench, watched him shake his head. “The radiation was too much, sweetheart. No one could live through that. You’ve been out for two weeks – I wanted to wait to tell you – I’m sorry-“

“No,” she whispered. Razor wire seemed to tighten around her heart. Bruce was _gone_ , he was gone, she had lost him _Bruce Bruce Bruce Bruce-_

She was screaming. She couldn’t even hear herself, barely noticed her father stand and call for a nurse, fought away the hands that tried to touch her, she felt like she might burst from her skin because this feeling this grief and pain was too much _too much_ -

The prick of a needle in her arm, and the world faded.

_Betty Ross was forty-two years old when she felt true relief._

She’d known for years that he wasn’t dead, knew that her father had lied to her, _lied_ in a vain attempt to spare her the pain of what had actually happened – and so she would not know of his attempts to hunt Bruce down. She had tried to find him, tried and tried and tried, trawling news sites for anything that could be even a _hint_ as to his whereabouts, to tell her that he was safe, but there had been barely anything. She had tried to move on, tried to ignore the hollow ache in her chest and the space in her mind where he was. She carefully stored her memories and locked them safely away in the back of her head, bringing them out only occasionally, turning them over and over like well-worn photographs.

She had spent years catching glimpses of him in strangers, in the tilt of a head, in a dry chuckle, in a head of unruly curls, and though each glimpse had brought aching hope into her breast she had known that it wasn’t him.

This time though… this time it was _him_.

The rain was cold. It plastered her hair to her skull and soaked her blouse, but she didn’t notice. He was _there_ , staring at her as though she was a ghost, and suddenly every moment that she wasn’t touching him was agony. She ran and he was running too and they collided, wrapping together like vines, clinging like survivors of a shipwreck, like they were the last two people alive, and still it was not enough.

“Don’t go,” she whispered fiercely. _“Don’t go.”_

_Betty Ross was forty-three years old when she felt hope._

“Betty.”

She stared at him. He was tanned, his greying hair riotous, his kind face weary, his smile soft and genuine. She stepped forward, scarcely able to breathe past the ache in her throat. Hope burnt through her, intense and desperate.

“Are you staying?” she whispered.

His smile broadened slightly, his eyes crinkling. “Yes,” he said simply. “I’m staying.”


	2. Picture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hulk wants to share his new-found talent.

“Say that again.”

“Hulk is drawing. Was drawing.”

“Drawing,” Betty repeated. “Like pictures?”

“No, like complex graphs. Of course like pictures!”

“Okay.” Betty topped up her coffee mug. Clearly she was in need of more caffeine if she was going to understand this particular conversation with Tony Stark. “Why was Hulk drawing?”

“It’s all part of the plan to, y’know, socialise him. Make him less… smashy.” Tony mimed waving his fists around.

“Right. I am fully in support of this plan, but I’m not seeing where the drawing comes into it.”

“Drawing _and_ colouring,” Clint proclaimed as he entered the shared kitchen carrying a large roll of paper. His fingers were stained with purple and yellow wax. “He’s all about the colouring, though he can’t work out staying between the lines.”

“I’m gonna get him some Hulk sized crayons,” Tony decided. “Ones he can’t smush.”

“You’ve still not explained why,” Betty pointed out. “I mean, I think Hulk is capable of a lot more than Bruce realises, but I never had him pegged as an artist.”

“We found a list of those developmental steps for kids,” Clint explained, dumping the roll of paper on the table. “You know, the things they’re meant to be able to do by each age.”

“And we figured hey, Hulk’s kind of like a big kid,” Tony picked up. “Just… a lot more destructive and angry. So we thought he might like things kids like, and he probably wouldn’t know about them – little Bruce probably never did much colouring.”

Betty’s heart clenched. “No,” she agreed. “Probably not. So it… worked?”

“Like a charm,” Tony said, beaming. “I mean, Bruce is asleep covered in coloured wax so he’ll probably be pissy about it, give us one of his lectures, but Hulk had a whale of a time.”

“He made us promise to show you,” Clint said, perching on a stool by the table and beginning to unroll the paper, shuffling the sheets into a loose pile. “Very insistent on you seeing his drawings.”

Betty couldn’t help but smile at that. “Well you’d better show me then,” she said, sitting herself down at the table beside Clint.

The pictures were very clearly those of a child, all strange proportions and simplistic features, the colouring more enthusiastic than neat. Hulk featured prominently in the drawings, green and fierce. There was always a strange brown circle in the middle of his chest, and Betty frowned at it for a moment, before realising.

“It’s Bruce,” she said, touching the brown spot in a picture of Hulk roaring at what looked like a Doombot.

Tony peered over her shoulder. “Huh. Guess you’re right – Bruce in Hulk.”

“We should get him some of those Russian dolls,” Clint said. He had left the table and was in the process of stealing some of Thor’s pop tarts. 

Bruce appeared as himself in some of Hulk’s pictures, always with a sad face, and on his own. Betty moved on from those quickly, hating how it made her breath catch.

There were pictures of Tony, both as Iron Man and as himself, always with a smiling face and a goatee (even with the Iron Man mask). Steve featured a lot as well, usually pointing at things. Natasha appeared as a black and red blur, Clint was in the top corner of a few pictures, and Thor appeared only with the rest of the team, a grumpy scowl scrawled on his face in heavy black crayon.

“He still doesn’t like Thor, then.”

“To be fair, Fabio did slam him in the face with that damn hammer when they first met.”

Betty turned back to the drawings, not liking to think about Hulk’s confused, frightened, angry rampage through the helicarrier. She had heard too much about it already.

“The next ones are what he really wanted you to see,” Tony said quietly.

The following pages were all… _Betty_. Betty on her own, with long dark hair and a big smile. Betty and Bruce, and in those pictures _Bruce_ was smiling. In one picture, Betty was sat on an animal that looked vaguely like a horse.

“Oh my God,” she breathed. “That’s – that was _years_ before the accident. I told Bruce he remembers things, I _told_ him… oh my God…”

They had gone horseback riding on her birthday one year. Betty had laughed at the white knuckled grip Bruce had had on his horse’s mane, even though the owner had told them that she was old and entirely bombproof. Betty remembered the day in echoes of laughter, in the smell of horse and hay, in the sensation of the sun burning the back of her neck. And now it seemed that _Hulk_ remembered it. He had _been there_ , all this time, he had been there inside Bruce.

There was Hulk and Betty in what looked like a black hole with yellow lines outside it. After a moment she realised it was the cave they had sheltered in from the storm. In the picture, she was holding Hulk’s hand.

The final picture was of Betty and Bruce, holding hands and smiling. Betty wore a blue dress, and Bruce’s hair was a messy scribble. Behind them, around them, enclosing them, was the huge shape of Hulk.

“They’re pretty sweet, huh?” Tony said. Betty touched her crayon smile, blinking against the prickling in her eyes.

“Yeah,” she said. “They really are.”

When Bruce woke up, it was to find a framed child’s drawing of himself, Betty and Hulk hung in their living room. 

“We’re keeping it,” Betty told him stubbornly when he opened his mouth to comment.

He looked at the picture for a long time, frowning thoughtfully. Then he’d shrugged, turning to her and pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Okay,” he said. “We’ll keep it.”


	3. Star

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Captain America was Betty's childhood hero. When she meets him in the flesh, however, she just can't bring herself to like him.

When Betty was twelve, she had a poster of Captain America on her bedroom wall. Dad wouldn't let her have pictures of men up – her posters of Dirk Benedict as Starbuck and Paul Michael Glasier's Starsky were summarily torn down and put in the garbage, despite her fierce protests – but Captain America passed muster. Her dad clearly considered the Star-Spangled Man to be an appropriate object of hero worship for his daughter.

Oh, Betty had _fantasies_ about Captain America. She had all the comic books and read them to tatters. Captain America was strong, brave and handsome, and he always saved people and did the right thing. Betty imagined going on adventures with him, saving people alongside him, imagined him grinning at her and telling her she was smart and brave. Usually those fantasies ended with him kissing her – she had no idea what kissing was like, but she knew it had to be amazing and perfect, and what better person to imagine kissing than the gorgeous Captain America?

Then, decades later, she actually _met_ Captain America – except this time he was Steve Rogers, man out of time. He was exactly what she had always imagined: brave, strong, good, and so very, _very_ handsome. He was also kind, with a wry sense of humour. He loved old slapstick comedies and too-sweet coffee and sugared doughnuts. He was a good man, an honest one, and he obviously adored his friends.

But Betty couldn't like him.

At first, she couldn't understand why. There was nothing _not_ to like about Steve Rogers. Bruce liked him – Bruce _trusted_ him – and that was a rare enough occurrence that it should have meant something to Betty. Instead, something about Steve set her teeth on edge. Tension coiled in her shoulders whenever they were in the same room, and no matter how much she tried, she could feel no affection towards him. Her twelve-year-old self would have been horrified.

She began to understand why she couldn't like Steve one winter evening, a few months after she had moved into Avengers Tower. They were gathered in the rec room, drinking mulled wine and sharing stories. Tony had started them off with some of his college exploits which had reduced most of them to tears of laughter, though Pepper rolled her eyes at him _a lot_. Betty had told some stories about Bruce at college (with interjections of, “That's not what happened!” and “It was an accident, I swear!”), and Clint had demonstrated some circus tricks that involved far too many knives for Betty's comfort. After a long-winded tale of a glorious battle on Asgard from Thor (which involved several instances of Jane patting his arm and telling him to “wind it up now, Thor...”), Steve began to share some stories about his old life. His descriptions of his pre-serum self were self-depracating and amusing, and his face went wistful as he talked about Bucky. He told them about his decision to take the serum, after he had thrown himself on top of what he thought was a grenade.

“That's what did it, apparently. I couldn't run, I wasn't strong, I wasn't... well. I wasn't a soldier. But I guess they thought if I was willing to do that, then there had to be something in me. Erskine told me... he said the serum, it made what was good great, and what was bad worse.”

As soon as the words were out of Steve's mouth, the atmosphere shifted. What had been warm and companionable was suddenly taut, wary. No one looked at Bruce. Betty felt him stiffen beside her, saw the minute tremble of his left hand, and white hot anger blazed through her. 

“I'm sorry,” Steve said quickly, looking horrified. “That was thoughtless – Bruce, I didn't mean-”

“It's alright,” Bruce said in a deceptively calm, gentle voice. “It's alright, Steve. You were just telling us what Erskine said.” He gave a wry smile. “I'm not sure he's wrong, either.”

Steve looked as though he were about to protest. Natasha and Clint were tense, wary, ready for something to snap. Jane kept glancing between Bruce and Steve, biting her lip, and Thor had his fists clenched in his lap. 

“Bullshit,” Tony declared, taking a swig of wine. “Emotions in science? Utter bullshit. Don't talk crap Banner, else I'll ban you from my lab.”

“Technically you gave me a lab,” Bruce pointed out. “So it's mine.”

“I can take it back. I will rescind laboratory privileges until you agree to check your icky emotions at the door.” He pointed at Steve, the glass still in his hand, sloshing wine onto the floor. “The serum was created in totally different circumstances by totally different people and tested on entirely different subjects. Pure, simple, scientific reasons for the different effects. Nothing to do with unquantifiable ideas of good and bad. Capiche?”

Steve bristled for a moment, then sighed. “Of course.”

“Excellent, glad we got that cleared up.” Tony slumped back on the sofa and nudged Pepper. “Pep. Wine. More wine is needed.”

“Go and get it then,” Pepper said, stealing his glass and draining it. 

“This is part of your twelve-percent. Wine duties.”

“I'll go,” said Bruce, getting to his feet. “I'm not sure I trust Tony to create mulled wine. No, it's okay, Pepper, I don't mind-”

Steve looked troubled as Bruce left the room. Pepper began to tell them stories about the various compromising positions she had found Tony in, but Betty couldn't listen any more. She stood to go and find Bruce, and Steve caught her wrist as she passed.

“I really am sorry,” he murmured. “It was thoughtless.”

“Yes,” Betty said coldly. “It was. It's lucky Bruce is used to people being thoughtless about him.”

She didn't care that she was being unfair, didn't care that Steve's face crumpled a little. She _knew_ how that comment would sit in Bruce, how he'd internalise it, how he'd add it to his pile of evidence that he was bad, unworthy, a monster. Steve Rogers' feelings were of no concern to Betty.

Bruce had his back to the kitchen door, leaning his hands on the counter top as he watched the wine warm in the saucepan. The air was sweet, thick with the scent of fruit and spices; it seemed cloying now.

“How anti-America would it be to hit Steve Rogers?” she asked, leaning against the doorway.

Bruce ducked his head and she heard his dry, warm laugh. “I think people would look more kindly on you killing and eating a bald eagle.”

“Shame. I'd kind of like to punch him right now.”

“I wouldn't advise it. I'm pretty sure his jaw has been carved from granite.”

Despite herself, Betty laughed. She crossed the kitchen and wrapped her arms around Bruce's waist from behind, dropping a kiss to the curls at the nape of his neck. He sighed, and she felt some of the tension leave his shoulders. 

“Sorry,” he muttered. “I've managed to spoil the evening.”

Betty pinched his side, making him yelp. “You didn't do anything. Steve should never have said that.”

“He was just telling a story-”

“And in doing so made an incredibly insensitive and hurtful comment.”

“He did apologise. And it was just what Erskine said, it's not what Steve thinks.”

Betty sighed, pressing her face into his shoulder. “You're making me feel bad. Stop being so reasonable and forgiving. I'm really mad at him.”

Bruce reached to shut the burner off, turned around and wrapped his arms around her properly. “You don't like him, do you?”

“That obvious, huh?”

“Not to everyone else, I don't think. Is that... why? Because the serum did that to him and... _this_ to me?”

Betty pulled back, studying Bruce's face. She traced her fingers over the worry lines worn into his face, brushing her thumb lightly over the creases around his eyes, studying the liberal grey in his curly hair. “I don't like Steve because... because if it weren't for him, my dad would never have become obsessed with recreating super soldiers. The experiment would never have happened, the accident would never have happened, and our lives wouldn't have been shattered for so long. And just... seeing him, all – all _perfect_ and _good_ , and we have been through so much because of him. I know it's unfair, I know it's not his fault, but sometimes I can barely stand to look at him because all I can see is how what he is almost destroyed us.” 

“Betty...” Bruce said, helplessly. “Betty, that's not Steve's fault-”

“I know that! It's irrational, I know, but I looked up to this idea of him so much when I was a kid, and Dad idolised him, and just... he's meant to be everything that's right, everything we should want, but to me he's just... everything that went wrong.”

“I'm sorry. I'm sorry I- I'm not more like him. It isn't Steve's fault, Betty. I made the choice, I ruined everything with that choice, not Steve-”

A small noise of frustration forced its way from Betty's throat and she pressed her forehead to Bruce's shoulder, hands clenched in his shirt. “Stop,” she said fiercely. “ _Don't_. We have talked about this Bruce, and it's not. Your. Fault. You weren't the only one working on the programme, you aren't the only one who agreed to go ahead, and you _weren't_ the one who _lied_ about what we were doing. And I don't want you to be like Steve, don't ever think that. I want _you_ , you brilliant idiot.”

He was quiet for a moment, then his arms wrapped around her and he kissed her hair. They stood like that for a while, in the sweet, fume-filled kitchen, Bruce clinging to her, pressing his face to her hair.

No, she couldn't like Steve Rogers. Where he had stood for courage, for loyalty and kindness, now he stood for grief and pain, for dangerous obsessions. And Betty wasn't sure she could ever forgive him that.


	4. Restrictions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce had always learnt to keep his happiness tightly locked away.

Mommy brushed the tears from his cheeks with her thumb, hushing him as she did so. “Tell you what,” she said, a tremulous smile on her face, “tomorrow, we’ll go get ice cream. How about that? Just you and me.”

“C’n we go now?” Bruce whispered, small hands clutching at her blouse.

“No, sweetie. Not now. We’ll go tomorrow when Daddy’s at work. It’ll be our special secret.”

Bruce sniffed hard and tried to smile. Mommy always liked it when he smiled. “’kay. C’n I get choc’late?”

“Course you can, baby. Now how about you help me with lunch?”

Bruce treasured those stolen times with Mommy. They didn’t happen very often, because even when Daddy was at work Mommy had lots of jobs to do at home, and Bruce had to go to pre-school some days, but there would sometimes be a few hours when they could go out. They would get a treat like ice cream or pancakes, or they’d go to the park or to the library. One time they even went to the movies, to see _Star Wars_ , and Bruce had clung to her hand all the way back, telling her excitedly that she was _just like_ Princess Leia.

“Oh yeah?” she had smiled. “So who are you?”

“I’m Han Solo!” he piped. 

She laughed and ruffled his hair. “I bet Han Solo combs his hair,” she told him. 

When he was older, Bruce remembered those times with a desperate, aching longing in his chest. The memories were tinged sepia, like faded photographs, and he clung to small details like the smudge of vanilla ice cream at the corner of his mom’s mouth, or the flower-patterned dress she had worn when she’d pushed him on the swings at the park. 

Those times, short, restricted and secret, were his only real idea of what it meant to be happy.

*

“My favourite colour is red,” Betty said, apropos of nothing. They were in her dorm room, taking advantage of her roommate’s absence. Bruce had been close to a doze, her warm weight against his side and her head on his shoulder comfortable. They’d been dating for a good few months now, and he’d only just got to the point of being comfortable cuddling like this. It was lucky that Betty was patient.

“Huh?”

“I broke my collarbone falling off my bike when I was nine. I used to have a crush on Starsky. My first pet was a cat called Cleopatra.”

“Um. Okay. That’s all… very nice. Except the collarbone. Er. Why are you telling me this?”

Betty poked him in the side. “I’m hoping you’ll respond in kind,” she said. “You’re a closed book, Bruce. I know you’re a physicist, I know you’re a nerd, and I know you’re adorable. But I don’t really know anything about you.”

Bruce shifted over onto his side so he could look at her, brushing her dark hair behind her ear. “I’m sorry,” he said helplessly. “I’m not very good at things like that.”

“It’s okay,” she said, smiling. “I don’t mean you need to give me your life story, but it’s like you just… shut everything away. You’re a blank page.”

His first instinct was to panic. She couldn’t know about him. She couldn’t. If he told her about him she’d realise he was dangerous and she would leave.

_She should leave,_ a snide voice in his head said. _She deserves better, anyway._

Well. That much was true. Betty was watching him in concern, biting her lip.

“I don’t know what to tell you,” he said helplessly. 

Betty shifted closer, wrapping her arms tight around him and kissing him. “Tell me something that makes you happy.”

“You.”

She laughed. “Such a charmer,” she teased. “That's very sweet. Something else, though.”

He could lie. Make something up. But suddenly, looking at Betty with her clear eyes and her smile and the sheer, honest _affection_ in her face, he didn’t want to hide everything any more. He sighed, preparing himself, and carefully unlatched the box in his mind.

“When I was little, Mom and I used to go on these secret trips…”

Betty listened quietly, stroking his hair as she did so. As he spoke, a tight knot in his chest seemed to loosen. “Your mom sounds amazing,” Betty murmured when he was finished.

Bruce cut his eyes away. “She was,” he said.

“It’s okay.” Betty’s lips pressed against the corner of his mouth. “I miss my mom too. All the time.”

Bruce gave her a tentative smile. Maybe, just maybe, he could begin to let a part of himself go.


	5. Month

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce can't believe that he's been dating Betty for a month - then or now.

_Bruce ran his fingers through his curly hair in a desperate attempt to tame it, and only succeeded in making it stand up even more. He scrutinised his reflection, and supposed it could be worse. The green shirt wasn’t too bad; it was obvious he’d at least attempted to iron it, and he’d saved shaving until late because his facial hair grew at a ludicrously fast pace._

_“Dude, just fucking leave already,” Joe complained from his bed, and Bruce threw him a glare. “The girl’s been on a bunch of dates with you, she doesn’t care that you look like you’ve been electrocuted.”_

_“Oh, thanks very much,” Bruce muttered, eyeing his hair in distaste one last time. “Right, I’m going, I’m going…”_

*

“How the hell can you be nervous?” Tony demanded, lounging back on Bruce’s bed with his hands behind his head. “You’ve been with her for _over twenty years_.”

“Technically we were together for eighteen years and then I was a fugitive from justice for about five.”

Tony waved a hand. “Semantics. What I mean is, she’s seen you at your worst and she’s still willing to date you. She obviously doesn’t care about things like bed heads or alarming chest hair.”

“You aren’t helping.”

“You spend hours with her all the time _anyway_. I’m honestly not sure why you’re even taking her on a date.”

“You’re so romantic. Pepper’s a lucky woman.”

Tony threw a cushion at him. “Wear the yellow shirt,” he said decidedly. 

“Really? Yellow?”

“Sure, yellow. Even Natasha thinks you look cute in yellow.”

“What a terrifying thought.”

*

_”Hey, Bruce!”_

_“Uh, hi. I’m not – not early, am I?”_

_“No, no, I’m all ready to go,” Betty beamed then lowered her voice conspiratorially. “Get me out of here before I snap and kill my roommate please.”_

_“Ooh, right. Quick then, wouldn’t want to get blood on your dress.”_

_“Who says there’d be blood? I was planning on poison. Something undetectable.”_

_“Sneaky, Miss Ross. If I’d spent much longer with my roommate tonight I’d have just bludgeoned him.”_

_“You have no finesse,” Betty laughed._

_Bruce shuffled his feet awkwardly. “Not really,” he agreed. “Um. On the subject of lacking finesse, I... I have something for you. Before we go.”_

_Betty look a little puzzled. “Really? How come?”_

_“Um.” Bruce ducked his head, his curls falling into his eyes, and abruptly handed her the small potted orchid he'd been concealing behind his back, practically thrusting it into her grip. “I – we – we've been dating for a month now and... and it seemed like... a significant anniversary. Um. It's a milestone for me, anyway, so...” God, he was so, so bad at this. He had no idea which parts of a relationship were meant to be recognised, but he wanted to do this right and a whole month together seemed pretty significant to him._

_“Oh!” Betty took the orchid and studied it, beaming. “Bruce, it's gorgeous! You're so sweet.” She pressed a kiss to his cheek. “I'm afraid I didn't even think about it. Sorry.”_

_“That- that's okay, I guess it's not really that big. I'm glad you like it.”_

_“I _love_ her. I'll just go put her inside, 'kay?”_

_As Betty hurried back indoors, Bruce sighed with relief. One more relationship hurdle negotiated. It was lucky Betty was so patient with him._

*

“You look lovely.”

Betty smiled, giving a twirl to show off her blue dress. “Pepper helped me pick it,” she said. “Since I’m hopeless at that sort of thing. I had to stop her buying me some ridiculous heels like hers, though. Told her I’m like Bambi on ice in those things. And you’d feel all insecure with me towering over you.”

“I’ll have you know that I am frequently nine feet tall,” Bruce retorted. “I’m no longer insecure about being short some of the time.”

She laughed. “Maybe I’ll buy some platforms then. And you’re looking pretty good yourself, Doctor Banner. Not many men could pull off a yellow shirt.” She reached out to smooth the collar down and kissed him as she did so. Bruce cupped her jaw in his hand and kissed her back. “So where are you taking me?”

“ _Il Buco_. I’m reliably informed they do some of the best Italian in the city.”

“Ooh, you know me well.”

“How could I possibly forget your utter obsession with Italian food?” 

“I thought I was always quite subtle about it, actually.”

“Oh, very subtle. I barely noticed it.” 

“Cheeky. Now, are you going to tell me what you're hiding behind your back or do I have to guess?”

“You're going to laugh at me, but... I have something for you.”

“Ooh, you're spoiling me. What is it?”

Blushing slightly, Bruce showed her, and whilst she did laugh, her eyes were suddenly very bright. 

“Oh, _Bruce_... oh, you are silly. And sweet.” She took the little potted orchid, ran one finger gently over a petal. “One month anniversary,” she murmured, almost to herself.

“Yeah. I just... I dunno, it's silly, but I thought... I took you for Italian the first time, and bought you an orchid, and it went pretty well. So don't fix what's not broken?”

Betty smiled, reaching up with her free hand to push some curls from his forehead. “It's perfect,” she said. “Thank you. But can I suggest one change?”

“Oh?”

A cheeky smile spread across her face. “This time you can do more than kiss me goodnight.”

“Oh. Well. I'm sure I can manage that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may have adopted some headcanons from others because they're just really fun - such as Betty's love of Italian. And hey, Ruffalo is part Italian, so maybe his Bruce is too.


	6. Destruction

Bruce had been an expert in destroying things long before the Other Guy showed up. He always managed to ruin things, always managed to tear them down, years before he began to wake up in the rubble of ruined buildings wondering how many people he had killed.

The first time his anger had bubbled up in Betty’s presence – his control over it had always been a desperate hope rather than a reality – he had thrown several plates at the wall of his apartment before glimpsing her face, white and shocked and _afraid_. He had run, leaving the apartment and fleeing into the night.

He had scared her. He had scared Betty, had shown her the twisted, terrible truth of himself and he had scared her. His mom had looked like that, pale-faced and frightened, when his father had fallen into a rage and Bruce felt sick. _You’re just like him,_ he told himself. _You always knew you were, and this is proof._

Now Betty would leave him, and he was glad. What if he was like his dad in other ways? What if he couldn’t stop himself, what if he hurt her? 

The very idea of it made his stomach churn and he stopped running, leaning against a wall to retch, choking on barely-restrained sobs. 

“Bruce?” Her voice was quiet but steady, determined. Bruce clenched his eyes shut, wondered if she was going to tell him she was leaving him, hated himself for hoping the opposite. He was bad, he was destructive, and she should leave.

She was warm behind him, her arm around his shaking shoulders. “Come on,” she murmured, steering him away. “Let’s go home.”


	7. Sea

Bruce didn't like the sea. When he reached the sea it meant there was nowhere else to run, and he'd have to either make some rapid changes of plan or come up with ways to cross into other countries. Usually he could do that via boat – there was usually someone who could be persuaded to let him hide away on board. He preferred that to be an absolute last ditch try, though; the idea of having an Incident whilst at sea in an enclosed space sent terror pooling into his stomach. 

Quite apart from those huge concerns, Bruce wasn't a good sailor. Seasickness plagued him, and he had never been a strong swimmer. He wasn't sure about the Other Guy, and he didn't much want to find out how he fared in the water.

Betty had always wanted to go to the beach; she had spent a lot of her childhood near the sea, and had fond memories of it. Bruce had never been able to refuse Betty anything, but they'd never got around to planning their trip. “Next summer”, they'd always said. “Next spring”. After this project, after these results, after, after, after. Just another thing they had put off, and for what?

The beach Bruce stood on now was a far cry from what he had imagined with Betty: it was dark and stony, rather than golden, and the sea was a sullen iron grey, waves jagged against the sky, rather than smooth and cerulean. He had imagined it being warm, not having to bury his hands in his pockets away from a sharp breeze. He had imagined that he would be happy, with Betty laughing at him, tying her dark hair up away from her face, her long pale limbs burning when she didn't put on enough sunscreen.

Now he was just alone.

Bruce tore his gaze away from the churning ocean, disgusted with himself. It was bad enough that he let himself drift into memories so often, that he was clinging onto a past that could never be regained. Now he was making up things that had never happened – or hoping that they would. It was unhealthy, it was dangerous, it was _stupid_.

Gritting his teeth, Bruce shouldered his bag and trudged up the cold grey beach towards the distant town.


	8. Obsolete

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the events of Harlem, Betty calls Leonard.

“Betty! Thank God. Are you alright?”

“I’m fine, Len.”

“Where are you? When will you be home?”

“I’m in New York. I – I’m going to stay here for a few days. I don’t know when I’ll be back just yet. I need to – I need to think.”

A pause. “Is Bruce there?”

A shaky breath. “No, he… no. He had to –” She broke off.

“I saw, on the news. There were – two of them?”

“Yes. Len I – I can’t explain right now. I don’t even understand it myself. I promise, I’ll tell you everything when I’m back. I’m so sorry.”

“Alright, Betty. You’ve been through a lot. Take your time.”

“God. You deserve better than this, Len.”

“Maybe so.” Another pause. “We’re not going to work out, are we?”

“I – I don’t think so. I wanted to, you know. After everything, you were – I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“No. I knew though, the minute you brought him home. I knew I’d never get you back. It’s been hard, Betty, competing with a ghost. It’s harder now he’s real.”

A bitten off sob. “I am so sorry. I can’t even tell you.”

“I know, Betty. I believe you. I know you didn’t mean for any of this to happen – you’re caught up in it as much as anyone else.” A sigh. “I want you to be happy.”

“You made me happy, Len. When I thought nothing ever could again, you did.”

“But I’m not enough.”

“No one could be. No one but him.”

“He’s hurt you before. And he’s left you again. He’s not safe…”

“He’s a victim in all of this, Len, more than any of us.”

“I’m sorry.”

“So am I.”

“Come home soon. Look after yourself.”

“I will. I’ll – I’ll let you know. Thank you, Len. For everything.”

“Bye, Betty.”

The phone went dead. Betty blinked back tears.


End file.
